Saving Alice (12 page)
I grimaced. “Explore what?” I asked. “Have you forgotten where we live?”
“Let’s pretend we’re in an exotic world!”
Her pleas fell on deaf ears, especially during football season, which she considered a crime against humanity. Undaunted, Alycia would wander into the room, lean over me—standing in front of the TV, no less—and whisper, “Defy the couch.”
Then she’d sit on the floor, and with all the subtlety of a TV evangelist, say, “You’re bigger than the couch, Dad. It has no power over you that you don’t give it.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I told her, leaning on my side and employing the appropriate sports cliché. “The couch is my friend. I say:
Be
the couch. In fact, keep your eye
on
the couch.”
“The couch has destroyed your will to live,” she countered. “It’s not your friend. It’s your enemy.”
“Then I invoke the rule of Julius Caesar …”
She frowned in anticipation.
“ ‘Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.’ ”
She rolled her eyes.
I could have written a book and called it
Adolescent Facial Gestures,
along with the subtitle:
And How to Interpret Them,
filling the pages with a hundred photos depicting the subtleties and variations of eye rolling alone, such as, the look-away eye roll, the blink-and-you-miss-it eye roll, the cross-your-arms-deliberate eye roll, the slow-motion eye roll, the nod-your-head eye roll, and Alycia’s all-time favorite: the quick you’re-crazy-shake-of-the-head eye roll. Sometimes, to preserve its effectiveness, the eye roll was dispensed with altogether, replaced by the delicate one eyebrow raised.
In keeping with our modified form of communication, Alycia and I would often reinvent the words to Donna’s favorite show tunes, such as, “I’ve grown disgusted with your face,” from
My Fair Lady,
or my own favorite: “How do you solve a problem like Alycia?” from
The Sound of Music,
and while Donna didn’t participate in our remake of Broadway classics, every May she would break out her nostalgic records, including
Camelot
, and sing along: “It’s May, it’s May, the lusty month of May.” Which elicited the proper retort: “That’s gross, Mom.”
And if we were really bored, Alycia and I tortured Donna by singing her favorite Broadway tunes in “Elmer Fudd.” “If I wuh a wich man. Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum. All day long I’d biddy biddy bum. If I wuh a wealthy man.”
For most of Alycia’s elementary years, Donna and I were treated to explicit and elaborate descriptions of classroom life and politics— who hated whom, who liked whom, who wore what—including her teachers’ countless foibles. Mrs. Morrison had a beak like an eagle; Mrs. Shumaker shook the tables when she walked; and Mr. Wolf, her old gym teacher, looked like one.
We were also treated to elaborate descriptions of the social fabric of elementary school, including the sophisticated caste system. And then, one day, all commentary disappeared. In one fell swoop, we became the enemy, no longer trusted with her inner observations and conclusions.
Alycia was right about her mother, of course, although I’d never noticed before. Donna did have a “Grace Kelly” thing about her, perhaps more so in college. But what I remembered most about Donna was what seemed to me her spiritual naïvety. She had a rosy optimism, as if everyone would become a Christian if they just listened to reason. When they didn’t, it puzzled her to no end. “Don’t they get it?” she would exclaim.
And yet mingled within her optimistic Christian faith was her unrelenting disposition to guilt. She was forever repenting of thoughts and actions that had seemed to Alice and me utterly innocuous.
And yet, paradoxically, Donna’s personal navigation between the seemingly contrary worlds of literature and religion, at least in college, came effortlessly. However, with the passage of time and approaching middle age, it seemed to become difficult, as if she’d suddenly awakened to the irreconcilable differences, then struggled in vain to find a truce between her heart and mind.
C.S. Lewis wrote that if a child is taught something as harmless as standing on a chair is wrong, then later, even as an adult, they will never stand on a chair without guilt. In fact, it seemed to me that Donna had been taught that nearly everything in life was wrong
except
standing on a chair. As a youngster, she never attended dances, never listened to pop music, never set foot in a movie theatre, and never ever watched TV. Her folks didn’t even own one.
Unfortunately, the slow dissolution of her childhood faith accompanied the gradual erosion of our marriage. In keeping with this, I remember the day she threw a Christian novel across the room. Considering her literary tastes, I was surprised she was reading it at all.
“It doesn’t ring true,” she complained, and when I quizzed her further, she replied, “I can’t relate to it. It doesn’t reflect how Christians really live their lives…”
I was curious at her seeming overreaction, and she shrugged. “Their miniscule struggles. Their laughable temptations. Their nearperfect lives. And no one makes unredeemable mistakes. I mean … no one even swears in those books. The characters are plastic!” And then she scoffed, “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t let a word slip now and then.”
I considered this, tempted to dispute her claim. After all, I hadn’t heard Paul swear in years, mainly because he viewed profanity as antiintellectual. Larry rarely swore, because he viewed it as lazy and undisciplined. Despite this, and although I never read fiction, it seemed perfectly reasonable that Christians would prefer to read sanitized stories.
Donna was undeterred. “Besides … people don’t just sit around having religious discussions.”
I had to smile. “
We
do.”
She only stared at me.
“We discuss religion all the time,” I said. “And don’t you remember your argument with Paul?”
She closed her eyes, exasperated. “Please don’t remind me.”
A
t the time I wasn’t aware that Donna was already in a process of spiritual reevaluation. Despite this, I should have known better.
We’d invited Paul over for dinner. Donna had prepared chicken and rice, green beans, and apple cobbler for dessert, and by the time Paul showed up, six-year-old Alycia had already been tucked into bed. The meal itself progressed uneventfully, but after discussing an assortment of benign topics, Donna naïvely asked, “So, Paul, where do you attend church?”
Stunned by Donna’s question, I gave Paul a warning glance, hoping he’d temper his famous cynical intellectualism or dispense with it altogether.
Paul ignored me. “Why would I go to church?”
I was about to interrupt with something sports-related, but Donna was already speaking, “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Church is for people who believe in God,” Paul replied simply, shoving a spoonful of beans into his mouth.
I sucked in my breath, hoping Donna would transition to another topic. I knew for a fact that Paul would have loved to discuss literature with my wife. I opened my mouth to suggest it, but Donna was already saying, “You
don’t
?”
“You
do
?”
“Of course.”
“How?” Paul asked, and we were off to the races. The entire discussion turned into a great debate regarding religion versus science, and I wondered if Donna, despite her educated articulation, knew what she was up against. As for myself, I became a bystander to a verbal Ping-Pong match.
Donna seemed undaunted. “Do you really think we just evolved, that somehow matter created mind?”
Paul was all over it. “Quantum physics proves that we create our reality by observing it. God is us, looking back at ourselves.”
I wanted to crawl under the rug, but Donna didn’t skip a beat. “Physicists are like the blind boys touching the elephant. Each one touches a different part—the trunk, the tail, the legs, the stomach, then declares to know the truth of the elephant. Not only do they miss the big picture, but they forget that the elephant is
alive
. Defining parts of His creation doesn’t define God himself. There’s a Person behind the pieces of your universe.”
“A personal God is self-refuting,” Paul said. “It reflects our anthropomorphic tendencies to personalize everything.”
“Personality is what this universe is all about,” Donna countered. She cited the anthropic principle—the well-accepted scientific theory that our earth had been meticulously designed for human inhabitation. While I’d heard of it, I was surprised that she had too. Then I reminded myself that Donna was a voracious reader.
“It takes a Personality to design a world for other personalities,” she added. “Look at our human body. The details of our scientific functioning are still beyond our ability to fully grasp, and yet the parts aren’t what we’re about. We were made to think, to be human, to have personality.”
Paul shook his head, but Donna continued undaunted. “Our Creator knows us intimately. In fact, He became human, Paul, and died for you.”
Paul nearly came uncorked. “How did we get to this point? First we’re discussing the nature of the universe, and now you’re referring to a myth.”
“Myth became true,” Donna countered. She glanced at me for a moment, then continued. “Sure … God first revealed himself in the myths of mankind, but the myth of a God becoming human and then dying was ultimately revealed in history.”
Paul snorted. “You can’t believe that’s literally true?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“That’s just fundamentalism,” he replied, as if identifying it thus closed the argument. “They’ve stolen your religion. The fundamentalists are literal about everything.”
Donna was quick on the draw. “And the Liberals, New Agers, and Humanists mythologize everything. Christianity offers answers to the deepest longings and questions of mankind,” she replied steadily. “Even if you have a problem with Christian fundamentalism, as you call it, the core of Christianity still rings true.”
Paul scoffed and reached for his water glass. “Believe me, the god I can conceive of is better than the god Christians have created. For one thing, my god doesn’t send people to hell.”
“Neither does mine,” Donna replied.
“My God…” Paul stopped, suddenly unwilling to finish the statement.
“Your God is my God,” she replied with confidence. “And
our
God is the truest realization of all our fondest ambitions, hopes, and dreams. When we meet God, our greatest expectations will not only be fulfilled, they’ll be surpassed. When we go home to heaven we’ll never, ever again wonder:
Is this all there is?
”
By now Donna’s face was flushed, but Paul’s face had become a dark cloud of exasperation. In spite of her escalating emotion, Donna persisted. “Imagine having the complete, undivided attention of the God of the universe,” she said, eyes bright. “All the pleasures on earth are mere metaphors for our eventual experience of God. All the joys are an intimation of the ultimate Joy. Everything good on earth is a metaphor for our personal relationship with God.”
Paul shook his head again.
“How could you possibly disagree with that?”
“Because it’s not true,” Paul said. “It’s wishful thinking.”
“And where did wishful thinking come from?”
“Huh?”
“I mean … how could we wish for something that doesn’t exist?”
Paul frowned again, then smiled wryly. “What about time travel? I’ve always wished for that.”
“Maybe time travel exists!” Donna exclaimed, then added, “In heaven we won’t be constrained by time. Everything in your world of physics fits nicely within the logical framework of a personal God.”
Paul only laughed. “If Christianity is true, how do you explain the church?”
Donna frowned.
Paul continued. “Talk all you want about God’s love, but you won’t find it in the church. You want to quote the Bible? The Bible says, ‘You’ll know them by their fruits,’ but there aren’t any to be found! Case closed!”
Paul smiled as if he’d just scored the big one, but Donna wasn’t to be deterred. “Don’t reject God just because you reject the church, Paul. God is bigger than the church.”
The conversation took a different turn as Paul began to describe his own personal experiences with Christians and their inability to live up to their own countless rules. Slowly, the wind evaporated from Donna’s sails. She listened but now seemed lost. The red splotches in her face turned pale. The whole thing petered out once Paul realized Donna was no longer arguing.
The evening never recovered. Later that night, I awakened at one o’clock to find Donna sitting up in bed. When I turned on the lights, I saw tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were closed, and she was hugging herself tightly.
“Too bright,” she whispered.
I switched off the light. “What’s wrong?”
I detected a shadowy shrug.
“Try me.”
“You don’t need God to love you, Stephen. And you don’t even believe anymore, so you wouldn’t understand.”
I stroked her leg. “I’m sorry I invited Paul over,” I said. She shook her head. “It’s not his fault.”
“You were right, you know,” I said.
She sniffed. “About what?”
“The wishful thinking stuff.”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Days later, Donna received Paul’s note in the mail, thanking her for the meal and apologizing for the argument. While she figured I’d put him up to it, she wrote him a thoughtful letter back anyway. Although Donna was one of the few who truly accepted Paul, I never invited him back. In turn, this became another in a long line of rejections for Paul, especially painful because of his enormous respect for Donna. As of now, other than Susan, I was his only remaining friend.
In all truth, and in spite of her disagreement with Paul, I turned out to be the greater thorn in Donna’s faith. While I didn’t discourage her, I gave her zero support. The most I did was smile politely as she talked about her love for Jesus and agree too vociferously with her own frustrations with the church.
As for my own faith, Donna never accepted why I’d “given up.”
“I didn’t let go of God,” I replied. “He let go of me. God can’t be trusted.”
She smiled wryly, but her eyes held bitterness. “Why? Because He took Alice away?”
I opened my mouth to object.
“You quit believing at the very time when you should have persisted, Stephen. Did Job quit believing when God allowed everything to be taken from him?”
“The story of Job doesn’t count,” I argued. “God gave it all back to him!”
“He didn’t
know
God was going to do that,” Donna insisted. “He believed without knowing the outcome. Maybe God would have restored everything to you if you hadn’t quit.”
I was frustrated with her silly notion. “Impossible.”
“You should have persisted, Stephen, like Jacob wrestled with the angel, or the importune widow, or the woman whom Jesus seemingly scorned, telling her, ‘I’ve only come for the lost children of Israel.’ But later, after she persisted, He marveled at her persistent faith and gave her what she believed.”
I decided to puncture her argument. “So,” I said, “you’re saying God would have brought Alice back to life?”
“It’s not like He
couldn’t
!”
“You’re kidding,” I exclaimed. “You don’t even believe that yourself, do you?”
Her eyes glistened. “God can do anything.”
“Except make you feel loved,” I replied, my voice tinged with my own bitterness.
Her eyes welled up with tears. “But I won’t stop believing that He does. I don’t care if I don’t feel it. I still believe it.”
And to prove my point, a few weeks later Donna did something very foolish. She took up smoking.
I wouldn’t have believed that someone like Donna could do this if I hadn’t seen it firsthand. Initially, I wondered if maybe she didn’t start as a way to help our marriage, as if to further align herself with my antifundamentalism the only way she could. She already was going to movies and watching occasional TV.
“Why does Mom smoke?” six-year-old Alycia once asked me.
Because she can’t quit,
I almost said. Instead, I struggled to come up with a decent reason. “Your mother’s not perfect,” was my feeble reply. “She’s trying to prove something to herself.”
My little daughter swept her right hand over the top of her head in her unmistakable gesture:
I don’t get it!
I laughed and kissed her on the forehead.
“Are you angry with my smoking?” Donna once asked, implying that I should be.
Of course I wasn’t, which puzzled her. “It’s not a good habit, but it’s your choice.” Such a reply was foreign to her, and I suppose she used it to question my love for her, because, according to her warped childhood view, if I had loved her, I would have berated her personal failings. Eventually Donna did quit smoking, six months after she started, although it took several attempts.
Our last year of marriage was a disaster. “You touch me like I’m your sister,” she once said, a reference to our uninspired bedroom life, and I remember taking her in my arms and giving her the most passionate kiss I could muster. But when I released her, she glared at me, her eyes glistening, “See?”
Of course Donna was like any other woman. Surely as a young girl she’d yearned to find her own knight in shining armor, her own handsome Prince Charming. Surely she longed for someone to carry her away to his protective castle. Perhaps she’d even longed for her own Gatsby—her own romantic fool.
While I couldn’t lie and pretend I hadn’t adored Alice, I truly loved Donna, but despite our college friendship, we never recovered from our dubious beginning. The loneliness and grief we’d quenched in each other’s arms wasn’t a legitimate reason to marry, and my financial failures, my obsessed distraction, and my loss of faith only exacerbated our difficulties.
Three months before she left, Donna had whispered into the silence of our estranged bedroom, “You win, Stephen.”
Win what?
I thought, recognizing the beginning of yet another futile argument. I kept silent, but she continued in a flat and unemotional voice, “I can’t wait any longer. I can’t compete with your imagination of what might have been. I can’t wait to see the same look in your eyes, the way you once looked at her. I can’t wait for you to love me.”
I remember sitting up, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Donna, I
do
love you.”
She shook her head. “Not like you loved Alice.”
“But I’m glad I married
you
.”
She glared at me. “Then why do you still dream of her?”
I wanted to say the content of my dreams was outside of my control, but instead I said something even worse. “If we hadn’t married, we wouldn’t have had Alycia.”
She swallowed. “So that’s the only reason you love me? Because I gave you Alycia?”
I tried to reply, but she had already turned her back to me.